


Marvelous New Cheap Synthetics

by darthjamtart



Category: The Hour
Genre: F/M, M/M, Multi, Season/Series 01
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-02
Updated: 2014-02-02
Packaged: 2018-01-10 22:38:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,157
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1165415
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/darthjamtart/pseuds/darthjamtart
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Come on, then, gentlemen. Show me the hour I can’t miss.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Marvelous New Cheap Synthetics

Bel's lipstick is faded and smudged when Freddie slips into her room after dinner. It could be natural wear, but she turns her face away ever-so-slightly when Freddie brushes his thumb across the bottom of her mouth, coaxing a stray smear back into place.

"Hector's clothes?" Bel asks, fingers pulling at his tie. It had been straight for all of two minutes, after Hector helped him dress, earlier. Freddie's never been able to keep his ties straight for long.

"How could you tell?" Freddie asks, and Bel rewards him with a smile, silent laughter crinkling the corners of her eyes.

"I should have packed for you," she laments, as if that would have made any difference -- Freddie's long outgrown the suit he wore for summer evenings at the Elms' estate. Bel knows exactly what's in his closet: skeletons and tweed and nothing that would impress Marnie's parents.

He tosses the jacket across the back of a chair, ignoring Bel's exasperated sigh at his careless treatment of the garment. The shirt follows, already hopelessly wrinkled. "You could have put me in one of your dresses," Freddie suggests, and her smile turns faintly wicked.

"We're not in university anymore," Bel says. "My dresses are nicer, now."

Freddie lets his gaze drift, admiring. "So they are," he says, and she turns, spinning, champagne-bright and just out of reach.

“Did you have an entertaining evening?” Bel asks. She falls onto the bed in what should be a graceless tumble, an artless spill of limbs and the easy drape of her gown baring eons of skin. Freddie lets himself flop down next to her, inches away. He stares up at the ceiling, rather than at the clean gleam of her hair, loose on the pillow.

“It was...enlightening.”

There’s a quiet knock on the door, and Freddie closes his eyes, feeling the mattress shift as Bel flinches upright. “Now I _know_ we’re in polite society,” Freddie murmurs. “ _You_ never knock.”

Bel drops the pillow on his face when she gets up. “There’s no need to be insulting,” she says, then, to whoever is outside, “come in.”

“I thought I’d,” Hector starts, because of course it’s Hector, and Freddie clenches his jaw at the infuriatingly smooth, low voice. Hector stops short, apparently catching sight of Freddie on the bed. Or perhaps Bel has done something scandalous and dropped her gown on the floor. Freddie considers lifting the pillow from his face, but the odds of the actual view matching his imagination seem fairly low.

The door closes with a quiet click, and Freddie does move the pillow, then, just to see which side of it Hector ended up on.

He wears a suit better than Freddie ever will. It’s not enough that he has the right face, the right voice, for delivering the news, but also the breadth of shoulder that looks ready to carry the weight of current events, broad enough to shield their viewing audience from any potential danger. “I thought you’d be alone,” Hector says to Bel, but he’s looking at Freddie.

As though Freddie were the interloper here.

“Marnie told me the two of you were,” Hector starts again, and again stops short, like he isn’t sure _what_ the two of them are to each other.

“Oh, well, yes. Once,” Bel says. She shifts awkwardly, and maybe Freddie should leave her room, let them have this space, this night. This bed. He rubs his knuckles against the starched sheets and closes his eyes again, pulling the pillow back down over his face. “It was...ill-advised,” Bel adds, and Freddie yanks the pillow away long enough to mutter a protest, _was it?_

“You know it was,” Bel says, sounding cross.

“Whatever you say, Moneypenny,” Freddie says, knowing it will come out all muffled by the pillow.

There’s a pause, the rustle of fabric. Freddie pictures Hector’s hands, gliding over the silky fabric of Bel’s dress, coming to rest at her hips, her back. Lower.

“I don’t understand you,” Hector murmurs, and Freddie tightens his lips, because he knows, he _knew_ they hired Hector for his looks, not his mind. And Freddie has a certain advantage here, because he’s known Bel for a long time. Because he’s always understood her, even when he didn’t understand himself.

“I’m really not that complicated,” Bel says, half-breathless, like the words are coming out rushed, chased by kisses. There’s another rustle of fabric, and then Bel says, “Wait. Freddie.”

He’s about to offer to leave, maybe not even offer, just go without a word, when Hector says, “He can stay, if you like.”

“Is that what you want?” Bel is asking, when Freddie finally has the presence of mind to tear the pillow from his face and fling it to the side, blinking against the brightness of the room and Bel’s hair and Hector’s smug, eerie smile.

“Freddie,” Hector says, and presses a quick kiss to Bel’s shoulder, right at the curve of her neck, “is always watching me at my worst. I think I’d quite like him to see me at my best. To see what I’m about to do to you.” His hands stroke over her dress, fingers skipping over her waist to brush at the seams below her breasts.

“ _For_ me,” Bel counters, taking a step back. “What you’re about to do _for_ me.”

Even without the cameras on him, Hector is all mis-steps and delayed comprehension. Freddie chuckles, softly, and Hector turns on him, glare melting into wide-eyed faux-earnestness. He spreads his arms in a pleading gesture.

“Very well, then, Mr. Lyon. Show me how it’s done.”

“I wouldn’t presume,” Freddie says loftily. He stretches, luxurious, on the bed, and watches something flicker and darken in Hector’s gaze. Bel sighs, sitting on the bed next to him and nudging him with the back of her hand. Her knuckles press against the soft, thin cotton of his t-shirt, digging into his ribs, and he squirms away.

“Perhaps you should demonstrate on Hector,” Bel suggests, every bit as wicked as she was in uni, and how could he have ever thought otherwise?

There are many things Freddie is good at. Seduction is not one of them. He scowls at Bel, who digs her knuckles in harder. “You wanted to be watched, didn’t you?” Bel asks, low-voiced. She turns to Hector, head tilting in a way that leaves her hair coiled and clinging to her shoulder. “Both of you, always arguing over the best way to perform. Come on, then, gentlemen. Show me the hour I can’t miss.”

“That’s not fair,” Freddie says, but he rolls away from her, manages to get his feet planted on the floor before his hips leave the bed. “We have time to prepare for that. Usually.”

“I’m in no hurry,” Bel says, leaning back against the pillows.

Freddie looks at Hector, hair barely mussed, the crisp lines of his shirt and jacket still waiting to be rumpled. “Any particular story you had in mind for tonight’s broadcast, madam producer?” Freddie asks. He steps into Hector’s space before Bel has time to respond, close enough to cause a startled flinch before Hector schools himself, jaw setting and eyes glinting and yes, Freddie can work with this.

There’s a faint smear of Bel’s lipstick where Hector’s collar meets his neck. Freddie lifts a hand, runs a thumb over the mark, curls his fingers to cradle the base of Hector’s skull.

“Let’s see it, Mr. Madden,” Bel says, dangerously soft. “Show me what you were going to do _to_ me.”

Hector, surprisingly, doesn’t close his eyes, doesn’t pretend it’s Bel standing in front of him. Instead, he meets Freddie’s gaze squarely, offering a faint nod as his only warning before leaning in quickly, no hesitation as their lips meet. He kisses less gently than Freddie had expected, given Bel’s instructions, but then, it’s not like Hector pays much attention to what they tell him in the studio, either. Or maybe this is how he kissed Bel earlier, and Freddie should have started watching sooner.

It’s easy to kiss back. This, Freddie knows how to do: the subtle press of his thumb under Hector’s ear, tilting Hector’s head just enough for Freddie to move in closer, angling Hector’s mouth so it falls just a bit farther open. Freddie keeps his right hand at Hector’s hip, rubbing idly at the fabric tucked into his waistband. It wouldn’t do to obstruct Bel’s view, after all.

Hector pulls back first, but only to mutter, “Must you try to control _everything_ ,” and Freddie’s reply is stifled by Hector’s left hand, covering his mouth as Hector ducks to the side, nipping at Freddie’s neck. _Wrong side,_ Freddie thinks.

Bel, on the bed, echoes his thought, saying, “Mind the cameras, Mr. Madden.”

Hector growls in frustration, but lets go of Freddie’s mouth to wheel toward the bed. “Better, Miss Rowley?” he asks, and Freddie steps behind him to tug the jacket down his shoulders, letting it tangle at his elbows when Bel smiles approvingly.

“Much,” Bel says, nodding at Freddie. “Do continue, gentlemen.”

Hector shakes off the jacket, but hesitates when it hits the floor, like he wants to pick it up and hang it properly. Sighing, Bel rolls off the bed and comes around to scoop up the jacket, draping it over the back of the chair where Freddie’s clothes are already wrinkling. She gestures toward the bed, seating herself elegantly in the chair, one arm resting on the back and most likely creasing Hector’s jacket. Freddie smiles, and tugs Hector toward the bed.

The angles are better this way, Freddie thinks. He lets himself fall backward, then props himself up on his elbows, watching Hector try to figure out where to put his hands. “If we put on a good enough show, she might still join us,” Freddie whispers, but Hector just looks exasperated.

“I heard that,” Bel calls out, and Freddie grins at her.

“You were meant to!”

Up close, there’s a flush to Hector’s cheeks that their viewing audience never gets to see. Hector in black and white isn’t nearly as interesting, Freddie thinks, shifting his weight so he can reach one hand to pluck open the buttons at Hector’s throat. “You might as well let me do it,” Freddie says when Hector moves to bat his hands away, and Hector stills, his hand loosely curled around Freddie’s wrist.

“Will you stop telling me what to do for five minutes?” Hector says, but his words lack the edge they carry in the studio.

“Show some initiative, then,” Bel calls from the chair, and Freddie lets his hand fall to his side, cocks his head at Hector and raises an eyebrow.

“Everyone’s waiting, Mr. Madden,” Freddie murmurs, softly enough that he’s not sure Bel can even hear. “What are you going to do?”

He’s so busy watching Hector’s face that he’s taken by surprise when Hector strokes a finger down the exposed skin of his forearm, rubbing gently at the crook of his elbow. Freddie’s pulse leaps, the unexpected intimacy of the touch bringing his breath short. Hector’s mouth crooks up, a smug corner, and Freddie twitches, ready to lunge forward and wipe the hint of a smirk from Hector’s face, but Hector’s hands close firmly around his upper arms, pinning him to the bed.

“If you’d shut up for just a moment,” Hector mutters, and then he’s leaning down to kiss Freddie again, coaxing this time instead of demanding. It would be easy, pleasant even, to surrender, to let Hector take the lead, but Freddie’s never had much interest in _pleasant_ or _easy_.

Hector is a solid weight above him, all muscle and heat, and Freddie opens his mouth, deepening the kiss even as he wriggles free, waiting until Hector is off balance and twisting to follow the curve of Freddie’s tongue. Freddie uses the momentum to roll Hector onto his back, straddling him, and then there’s the hot press of Hector’s cock, straining the fabric of his pants. Freddie shifts his weight, pressing down, and Hector’s back arches, his head falling back as he groans, and he really is damnably handsome, finally losing the self-conscious edge that seems to attach itself to him every time they call for lights.

“Why must it always be a battle between you two?” Bel asks, from right beside the bed. Freddie hadn’t even noticed her move from the chair, but he and Hector turn in unison to watch her slide the shoulder of her gown down one arm. “Think how much you could accomplish if you would only work together.”

And for once, Freddie takes the easy and pleasant route: working in tandem with Hector to strip the slinky fabric from every inch of Bel’s skin, while her hands work on them in kind. They’ll none of them be anywhere near this agreeable come Monday, Freddie knows, so he might as well enjoy it while it lasts.


End file.
